Totoka River we grew under a bad sun

the woman is bristling even before he speaks, though caw is undeterred. if anything, he’s more interested – in the cold, predatory way that makes him want to sink his teeth into her skin and pin her down until she submits. the lowering of her head and the arch of her tail is not ignored; caw’s own tail lifts to mirror it and the bird on his back gives a harsh string of caws directly into his ear.
 
the cheer in his voice does not falter.
 
“classified,” he parrots, eyes gleaming bright and raw as he continues to slink forward. his back-fur puffs a bit, bristling with gleaming oil-slick feathers; he does not so much as falter in his approach, nostrils flaring as he all but jabs his muzzle into her shoulder. there is something that clings to her coat under her own scent and that of the pack’s borders – something acrid and sharp like smoke.
 
avis’ claws on his back draw tighter, warning, and caw’s ears flick at the sting. he does not stop. “why?”